(Un)Conscious Deliberation
by inkfleck
Summary: Set the evening of recuperation after meeting the Many Mothers, Furiosa anxiously processes the events up until that moment. Max, similarly, reflects on his life unconsciously.


In the thick of the night while the others settled down for rest the man took off his jackets and his shirt and used the open end of the tanker's water faucet to clean himself, particularly reaching for his back.

Upon hearing the soft splash of water, Furiosa rolled over and made out the shadowy figure of the man. She could see in the glinting light markings and welts of red - she could make out crude medical records marked on his upper back, tattoos given to wanderers who were picked up by the War Boys and used for whatever use the community came up for them. Fresh tattoos that were probably itching and uncomfortable the entire journey thus far. His back was broad and strong, remarkable for someone who'd been wandering, used and abused over days or weeks - and naturally any guess she'd have was he'd been wandering for years before that. With almost a start, she glanced away as he abruptly moved to clean his groin and pull his trousers up again.

He shuddered a little in the cool night's breeze before pulling his woolen shirt over his head and his jackets on after that. Moving away from the rig, she heard him settle down somewhere to sleep.

Max leaned down onto a laid out blanket, using his arm to rest his head. His tired, now a little clean, body aching from days of dehydration, loss of blood and strenuous encounters; he drifted into a thick, throbbing slumber.

He was driving the Interceptor. Furiosa and the women were with him, some how all the wives fit comfortably in the back with all his supplies and equipment. The tops of the Citadel were ahead of them - just the top parts of the cliffs. Green. They stopped the Interceptor and he walked into the trees and grassy glades. He could smell the eucalyptus oils and petrichor of fresh spring rain and in the distance a soft, feminine voice called his name. He wandered through the bush, following the voice, stepping through patches of comfortably warm sunlight and the cool shade of the trees. He seemed to be getting closer to the voice and was just able to make out that she was saying something else too. He started to walk faster, more urgently.

Despite not having slept for days herself, Furiosa didn't sleep much that night. Thoughts about what had happened and what would they be facing over the next days, weeks, months, years troubled her waking mind. Everything she had hoped for despite all that she'd done hadn't been fruitful and she felt a deep anxiety for the future. She felt she could control most outcomes when she had left the Citadel - though even the wandering man's presence proved that security wrong from the get go. He'd appeared entirely unpredictably, hijacked her plans and then with much effort on her part convinced to not only restore the plans but had proven to be immensely useful - no, essential - in the journey East. A wrench in the gears that ended up becoming a part of the machine - her machine. Her Rig.

He stepped on something softer than the ground and an agonising scream came from below him. A woman with curly hair cut to pieces, marked with tire marks, bleeding from her crushed skull writhed under his boot, reaching up his leg with her remaining arm.

"Where's Sprog? Max! Max, where is Sprog? Where is he? Max! Max!"

"Je-Jessie-" A grunt and what she thought could have been a sob came from the man's direction. She sat up and made eye contact with Capable who poked her head up from where she was lying with the War Boy. The man was twitching and moaning, agitated by some other nightmare, like the one he'd had in the Rig about a day ago. He sat up suddenly with a gasp and having turned to orient himself, he made brief eye contact with Furiosa before rolling back to sleep again, rubbing his forehead.

From then he found himself in the wasteland, surrounded by sand, brush and rocky dunes. Ominous silence echoed, sending his hair straight on end and he felt his guts being ripped out and heat searing his entire body and his weaker knee buckling agonisingly underneath the weight of his own body. This dream faded into nothingness and in the morning he would not remember it.

What was Jessie? Was it a name? Having met this man in the state he'd been - even if the War Boys had driven him wilder, it seemed like he hadn't spoken a word in years. It must have been thousands of days since he'd been around some other community where he'd been talking anywhere nearly as much as he'd been speaking with the women of the Rig. She could hear how much his voice had changed over the last two days, from grating single words out his vocal folds to short, rough sentences that still seemed odd though more fluent. It must have been years since he'd seen Jessie - and if he remembered this person through a nightmare, Jessie must have met a tragic end. Or perhaps that was who he was looking for? Maybe he was imagining what this person was going through now? "I'll make my own way." If it had been so long on the road looking for Jessie, then he had probably given up. With these thoughts, Furiosa drifted off finally, dreaming twisted, short dreams variations of the last two days until she was shaken awake by the Dag.


End file.
